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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114327">Tangling with Tornadoes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamrieIsMarxistGay/pseuds/SamrieIsMarxistGay'>SamrieIsMarxistGay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Toxic Tango [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream RPF, Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Analysis, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Destruction of L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, No heroes here, Psychosis, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, lots of talking, too much figurative language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:55:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30114327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamrieIsMarxistGay/pseuds/SamrieIsMarxistGay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A man plagued with delusions and filled with reckless self-endangerment clashes with one plagued by self-loathing, a loathing for the world and a soft spot deep within him for a forgotten friendship.<br/>...<br/> Wilbur meets with Schlatt unintentionally before the end. He ends up staying for a drink and reminiscing with Schlatt, for better or for worse, and is filled with conflict before the moment to blow up L’Manberg, and no one who understands him, except the very worst person.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Toxic Tango [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167782</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tangling with Tornadoes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic features themes of suicidal behavior/reckless self-endangerment and psychosis or a darker interpretation of canon events. Make of it what you will. Comments are unmoderated and open.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wilbur went out for a walk to drown out the thoughts in his head. His own voices crowded over one another like fish in a small pond leaping at the bait. None were foreign or strange, nor entirely understood. Just his own mind intruding on a quiet moment.</p><p><em>They all hate you. You’re unable to be helped. The world around you is all ruined and it’s all your fault</em>.</p><p>Wilbur ground his palms into his ears as if he could shut it all out and stared at the ground as he walked. The lights from Pogtopia’s few torches outside were much too bright right now for him to stay near to the base. He hated himself. Hated Tommy. Hated them all.</p><p>
  <em>They all know you’re the traitor.</em>
</p><p>It was a moment of weakness, his weakness. Dream came to him, pressing more TNT into his hand and leaning over and asking—telling Wilbur he could do it. End it all. Wipe it all away. Clean it. New slate.</p><p>Wilbur’s head had been in a frenzy ever since he was exiled. He drank the Kool-Aid Schlatt poured him and frothed with diseases unknown to man. His mind was melting with that fury and passion Schlatt brought out of him. From the ledge of rational thoughts his feet twisted and convulsed until their tango was a wicked waltz, whisking Wilbur away, away.</p><p>Away from what L’Manberg, <em>Manberg</em>, could be and suffocating his mind with images of it all in tatters as Schlatt disemboweled <em>his L’Manberg</em>, his <em>heartland</em>. Systematically removing every organ and cutting them and shredding them and grinding them and feeding that nasty pulp of his heartland right back to Wilbur through a drip feed.</p><p>
  <em>Your son hates you, Wilbur. Your L’Manberg died by our own whimsy. You let the sheep man in, and he ate what you sowed.</em>
</p><p>His thoughts were broiling. A constant simmer. A sound like a long note being whittled out on a violin in an empty concert hall, a bow dragging across his grey matter ever so slow. The world around him was distant. A fish-eyed lens over his entire view distorting the world until he felt like he was floating through it. Wilbur couldn’t even tell where he wandered.</p><p>“Wilbur?”</p><p>Until the voice cut through the ocean of images and feelings and wiped his mind into a pinpoint of red. Wilbur moved his hands from his ears and reached for his sword, but he didn’t do more than draw it. His knuckles were white around the handle. His awareness came back to him. L’Manberg. <em>Manberg</em>.</p><p>He was in L’Manberg at the remains of the shoddily rebuilt drug van.</p><p>Schlatt was standing on the steps of it, looking at Wilbur with a mix of surprise and some relief, even as the sword was held between them. He wasn’t entirely sober. Schlatt’s eyes were already tinged red and the twitches in his hands and movements revealed he might have been on something.</p><p>And Wilbur took Schlatt in as he stood there. The sheep man. His untucked shirt wasn’t hidden by his suit-jacket. His hair was messy and a bit greasy. Strands clung to his forehead and as Schlatt took a step towards him, he could see the unshaven stubble beneath his chin and on his neck. A pack of cigarettes peaked out of his pocket in his tight but worn and fading suit-pants.</p><p>Schlatt had never looked worse.</p><p>As Wilbur took him in, Schlatt reached for a cigarette but abandoned the motion and twisted his hands into the fabric of the trousers. He looked at Wilbur and sighed.</p><p>“You look as bad as I feel, Wilbur,” Schlatt said.</p><p>“I should kill you,” Wilbur said. He was angry. It was the only clear thing in his mind. Schlatt. How dare he stand before him. He held his sword up in a jerky swing and pressed the tip into Schlatt’s chest. Schlatt glanced down at the sword, and behind him to the door of the van.</p><p>“Figures,” Schlatt snorted. “You caught me, Wilbur. Right as I was about to start self-medicating.” Schlatt gestured down to a crate half beneath the stairs and Wilbur followed his gaze. It was a crate of beers and potions. “I’d wanted to go out painless, but if you’re here then let’s get this done and over with.”</p><p>Wilbur didn’t make any further moves. His hand with the sword was shaking. Schlatt looked at the wavering blade. He took a step away from it onto the stairs of the van, and when Wilbur didn’t follow, Schlatt did reach for a smoke. He pulled a cigarette free and sat down on the stairs, under the sword. He pat the space beside him on the stairs. “Join me, Wilbur.”</p><p>Wilbur lowered the sword to his side. “No,” he said. “Stand up and fight me, Schlatt. You don’t get to go out easy. Not after what you’ve done,” Wilbur prodded Schlatt with the sword again, jabbing it into his knee, but Schlatt was unbothered. He was reaching into the crate, pulling out a beer bottle and potion bottle with one hand. He set them both beside him and just gestured towards Wilbur’s sword lazily.</p><p>“You don’t want to kill me,” Schlatt stated.</p><p>Wilbur was shaking. He watched Schlatt open the beer and take a long gulp. His unlit cigarette was perched between his fingers as he added the potion to the beer and took another gulp. “Mm,” Schlatt hummed. “Wilbur, I know why you’re here. You want me to be the big bad monologuing villain for you. So, you can ignore that whole deal you took.” Schlatt looked up at Wilbur through his eyelashes.</p><p>“I want you to die,” Wilbur said.</p><p>“I plan on it,” Schlatt scoffed. He gestured to the crate. “Either this shit kills me, or they do tomorrow. That’s what you all were doing. Grouping up. Hunting me down,” Schlatt said. He set his drink between his knees and reached for the flint and steel to light his cigarette. “But. You aren’t with them right now…”</p><p>Wilbur knew where they all were. He hoped most of them were asleep by now. But he doubted it. Not with all Tommy’s seen. Not with the nightmares plaguing Tubbo after his death by Schlatt’s order. They didn’t sleep much anymore. No one did.</p><p>And it was his fault. For letting Schlatt in.</p><p><em>You ruin everything, Wilbur. You hurt the people around you. You’re not safe, Wilbur</em>.</p><p>Wilbur dropped the sword.</p><p>“Fuck you, I’m,” Wilbur licked his lips. “I’m going back and telling them you’re right here so I—we can get this over with.” He turned to leave, but his legs felt heavy and he was shaking badly. He was coming unglued here and now.</p><p>Schlatt laughed. “Have fun. Here I thought you’d want more time to pretend to be a hero to your little band of followers before you blow up L’Manberg.”</p><p>Wilbur thought if he was ever going to be weak in front of Schlatt again, it would be on Schlatt’s grave. This must have been close enough. His limbs felt too heavy to move. His mind felt unresponsive.</p><p>He didn’t want to ruin it. But he had <em>no choice</em>. The earth beneath him was so full of his sins. L’Manberg so marked by Schlatt’s touch—the only cure was burning it all away.</p><p>But Tommy and Quackity—they all thought Wilbur was on their page. He was persuaded away from his destructive tendencies. Wilbur had been talked down.</p><p>But Wilbur never changed.</p><p>He hadn’t ever changed.</p><p>He’d likely have been frozen there, his mind holding his body hostage if it hadn’t been for Schlatt. He half-dragged, half pulled Wilbur to sit down. His hands were clammy and warm on Wilbur’s arm and shoulder as the cigarette singed his shirt as Schlatt none too gently guided him onto the steps. “For fuck’s sake, Wilbur. God. Piece of work,” Schlatt muttered, sitting down next to him.</p><p>Their legs were touching and Schlatt kept a hand on Wilbur’s knee as he went back to drinking. He gently squeezed Wilbur’s knee, massaging his fingers into the trouser as Wilbur came back to his body, focusing on the sensation.</p><p>“You know, it doesn’t look half bad,” Schlatt reasoned, gesturing with the bottle and cigarette out to L’Manberg. Under the half-moon overhead, mobs shambled around the chaotic landscape of L’Manberg. It was cast in a blue hue, with yellows of lights from the buildings mixing into eerie greens at the edges. The flag, though ugly and an eyesore, eclipsed the half-moon and as Wilbur stared deep into the inky blackness, his mind supplied the image of his flag, L’Manberg’s old flag.</p><p>“Drink, Wilbur,” Schlatt said, and he pressed the bottle he was drinking from to Wilbur’s lips “It’ll make it less shit.”</p><p>Wilbur felt his unsteady hand rise. He wasn’t even sure he was controlling it.  He took a long drink, only the burn registering in his throat. He drank more, hoping the burn would spread to his mind and silence the feelings.</p><p><em>Let this be over</em>.</p><p>Would it be enough? If both of them were gone.</p><p>Schlatt took a drag from his cigarette. His hands were still shaking, and his hand had absently returned to Wilbur’s knee, gently tapping on the edge of it as if to reassure himself. Wilbur found his eyes drawn to the smoke of Schlatt’s cigarette curling upwards into the night air, and then the bud pressed against Schlatt’s chapped and blistered lips.</p><p>Above his lips, his moustache seemed singed in one area, and above that—his eyes were sunken, his cheeks gaunt.</p><p>Wilbur pulled his eyes away and stared at the landscape. He tried to imagine it grassy again and nice. Maybe Fundy would be here again. His son. His ears would flatten as Wilbur tried to embarrass him. The way his ears would angle when Wilbur greeted him. Tommy would be running past, always chasing something with his sword held at an uncomfortable angle. Maybe it would be Tubbo. Or Tubbo could start a flower garden—he liked bees didn’t he. Those big buzzing things…</p><p>“Fuck,” Schlatt hissed. He pulled his cigarette from his mouth. His lip had cracked, and he swept his tongue over the cut. He caught Wilbur’s eye and offered him an uneasy smile. “Sometimes I feel like we’re the only two who understand one another.” His hand tightened on Wilbur’s knee, and there was a soft beg in Schlatt’s eyes.</p><p>Wilbur’s vision of L’Manberg faded. He eyed the burning embers of the cigarette. Neither of them were any more relaxed than when they started drinking. Schlatt’s pupils were blown under his half-lidded eyelids and his fingers kept clenching into Wilbur’s knee. Any tighter and he’d leave bruises. Wilbur studied Schlatt’s face through sideways glances, and found his eyes weren’t even white anymore. Just a mix of red and yellow.</p><p>If this was the only person who understood him…</p><p>Wilbur finished the bottle, tilting his head back to drain it entirely. He reached over Schlatt’s lap to grab another from the crate as well as the potion vial. He took a few sips off the top off the beer to add the potion to it. Schlatt nudged him, and Wilbur handed him the bottle to take a few sips from, and he passed it back to Wilbur. Wilbur eyed those murky contents with faint glowing bits of the potion before drinking.</p><p>“I don’t want to die,” Schlatt admitted quietly.</p><p>Wilbur wiped his mouth off. “Neither do I.” A grim chuckle. “But we deserve it.”</p><p>Schlatt looked at him, frowning. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew it away from them. He let go of Wilbur’s knee and gripped his own arm as his hand shook. A wave of tremors passed over Schlatt and he sighed, a ragged noise.</p><p>“Shit,” Schlatt muttered. “Wilbur, we could leave.” He butted the cigarette out on his loafer and crossed his arms across himself. “We’d probably get blown up by a creeper, but…but we could go.” He ground the cigarette into the ground.</p><p>“To where, Schlatt?” Wilbur questioned. He kept drinking as he felt Schlatt’s pleading glance.</p><p>“Somewhere…fucking…somewhere. Anywhere better,” Schlatt suggested hastily. “Fuck, Wilbur, I’m not made of answers.”</p><p>Wilbur shrugged. He didn’t want to look at Schlatt. “I don’t want to leave, Schlatt,” Wilbur said. It was almost a confession at this point. Schlatt eyed him openly, disbelief. He uncrossed his arms and just thumped Wilbur’s chest lightly with one hand.</p><p>“You really fucking love ‘em? Your family and shit. Your friends?” Schlatt questioned. He snorted and pulled the bottle out of Wilbur’s hands and took greedy drinks, grimaced, then added more of the potion. He finished it quickly.</p><p>Schlatt managed somehow to get another bottle, even as his whole body practically was shaking. “That’s…heh…that’s real sick of you, Wilbur,” Schlatt said. Wilbur frowned. “You actually love them and want to fuck it all up. Not like—not like me who doesn’t give a damn,” Schlatt admitted. He couldn’t get the bottle open. Wilbur reached out and took it from him, his hands lingering on Schlatt’s as he opened the top and passed it back. “Thanks,” Schlatt said, swiping his tongue over his bleeding lips.</p><p>Wilbur wanted to be angry. He wanted to be a lot of things. But instead he just watched Schlatt mix the drinks, watched as they sloshed down over his hands into his pants, which were already far too stained.</p><p>“I know,” Wilbur said. Schlatt looked at him. “I know what I’m doing is…It’s…why—why I’m not planning on leaving alive,” Wilbur explained. “After I do it.” He looked at Schlatt’s face, an old habit, and he hated seeing that Schlatt understood. The empathy behind those broken eyes. He looked so much younger now. His age. He was younger than Wilbur and for a moment he finally looked it.</p><p>Schlatt lowered his eyes first. He was terrified. He may have hidden his fear in the drink, but it was so clear to Wilbur who knew him. The way his shoulders were so tight, the way he shook, the way his hands kept itching at his sides, wanting to reach out and grasp something.</p><p>“After I die, Wilbur,” Schlatt questioned around the lip of the bottle. “Will you miss me?” It was just a gruff whisper, barely louder than the distant zombie groans.</p><p>Wilbur nudged Schlatt’s shoulder. “I won’t get a chance to, Schlatt,” a dark grin. “I’ll be dead before the next morning,” Wilbur promised.</p><p>Schlatt laughed, his body spasming and he thumped his chest as he coughed.</p><p>“God, this is starting to become a problem,” Schlatt said, as he struggled for his breath, groaning. “It’d be something if my heart gave out now,” Schlatt said. He set the drink down and turned to Wilbur, spreading his arms wide. “You could always say you poisoned me. Say to your brat of a vice-president, ‘Dream’s trying to get me to blow up L’Manberg,’” Schlatt mocked Wilbur’s voice. Wilbur shook his head, and Schlatt’s arms fell. He snorted to himself and Schlatt unconsciously leaned closer to Wilbur. “They’d believe you. It’d piss off the green bastard, but I doubt you care,” Schlatt said and leaned his head on Wilbur’s shoulder. Quiet now.</p><p>Wilbur rested his head on Schlatt’s. “You make it sound so easy.”</p><p>“It is,” Schlatt said. “For better men. But we’re fucked, aren’t we, Wilbur. Even if you told Tommy, he’s a kid. Tubbo…Tubbo is too. Messed up two kids,” Schlatt rambled. “You’d have to look ‘em in the eye as they shower you with hero worship,” Schlatt said bitterly and pressed the bottle to Wilbur’s chest so he could take it. He did, slowly.</p><p>They sat like that for a while. Just pressed up against one another, staring out at L’Manberg. Schlatt pressed his face into Wilbur’s shoulder and grasped Wilbur’s arm, his eyes drifting closed. Wilbur took a sip of the drink.</p><p>When he lowered the bottle, he found himself reluctantly curious. “Do you regret it?” Wilbur asked. His question could be about a lot of things, but he had a feeling Schlatt would know.</p><p>Schlatt chuckled against him, his breath warm even through the fabric of Wilbur’s shirt.</p><p>“No,” Schlatt said. “You should know better, Wilbur.” His taunting lilt raised goosebumps on Wilbur’s neck.</p><p>Wilbur took another drink and wondered if he’d been better off plucking petals off a flower and asking it if Schlatt regretted it. The answer likely was too grey for Schlatt to ever explain himself. He finished the bottle and tossed it to the side of them. He felt…better.</p><p>“Just,” Wilbur closed one eye and straightened his hand in front of him and drew it across the horrid vision of Schlatt’s L’Manberg. “Wipe it all away. Clean. Gone. Grassy…Nice.”</p><p>“Yeah, Wil?” Schlatt said, quiet.</p><p>“Yeah,” Wilbur said.</p><p>“Without us,” Schlatt said. Wilbur stiffened, but he let his hand fall into his lap. He tightened his hand into a fist in his lap and sat in his misery.</p><p>“If I asked you, would you stop me?” Wilbur whispered. He already knew the answer, but he begged for it to be different just this once.</p><p>“No,” Schlatt said. Wilbur’s mood dropped. Schlatt sat up and he turned Wilbur’s face to his. “If I’m going to die, I want to see you die in a miserable fucking explosion with everyone you love staring up at you in hatred,” Schlatt said with all the love and tenderness he reserved for these kind of words—which was more than you’d want. He pressed a kiss to Wilbur’s cheek, relishing when he felt tears.</p><p>Wilbur broke. Grim. He wiped at the few silent tears and gripped Schlatt’s shoulder. Whether it was to punch him or to kiss him he didn’t know. “You’re the fucking worst, Schlatt,” Wilbur said. Schlatt, swept his thumb over Wilbur’s wet cheek, his palm still cupping Wilbur’s face. Schlatt leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Wilbur groaned.</p><p>He pushed Schlatt away and sat on the edges of the steps. The cold was sinking in now and he felt the weight of the looming events sink in. Schlatt had let go of Wilbur and instead crossed his arms across his chest. Schlatt ducked his head, his fingers digging into his arms. “You know. It wasn’t…it wasn’t awful,” Schlatt admitted. “Besides…messing up your shit. You know. Being here,” Schlatt said. He toed the cigarette butt on the ground and folded into himself more. “Think I could have even liked it here.”</p><p>Wilbur scoffed. Before this. Before letting Schlatt back into his life. He could have said he felt…warm. And at home. Almost.</p><p>The thing about his kind of plaguing paranoia was it never went away. No matter how good it all seemed, no matter how hard he laughed and how soft the bed he fell asleep in was…</p><p>Nothing stopped the insomnia, the waking up three hours later sweaty and disturbed. The fear of being found an imposter, of ruining it all—it always came back to haunt him. The intrusive, obsessive fears of contaminating his home and of ruining those around him.</p><p>Schlatt was a fuse. Even when Wilbur was well, Schlatt had a way of lighting up every dark nook in his head and bringing his unprocessed trauma to light and revealing he was only a few steps from darkness again. That maybe Wilbur was never well. That he was an act. An entire person built up on scaffolding.</p><p>All it took was a little force to knock him over.</p><p>And it went both ways. Schlatt. Always teetering on the edges of destruction and control, and Wilbur sent him grasping for some sense of balance and stability. And here they ended up.</p><p>In ruins.</p><p>“What would have made you like it, Schlatt? You had everything you needed. You had all the resources. You had a lover, friends—everything. What, Schlatt?” Wilbur questioned. He turned to face Schlatt fully, angling his body to face him. Residual anger began to cut through the somber and drunken anger in his mind and Schlatt looked to him, raising his head slowly.</p><p>He saw the words on Schlatt’s lips before he heard them.</p><p>“Yo—”</p><p>“No,” Wilbur cut him off. “We’ve done this before.”</p><p>“And we’ll do it again,” Schlatt said, annoyed. “You asked me. I’ll tell you. Wilbur, I like you.” At that Wilbur scoffed. Schlatt’s voice rose. “You wanted to know. I told you. What would have made me spare, Tubbo? L’Manberg? It would have been you—”</p><p>“No, Schlatt,” Wilbur snapped. He lunged and pulled Schlatt to him, his hands twisting into the ruined shirt Schlatt wore. He gripped the man by the collar. “I <em>know </em>you. You want to gab and gab about how you know me, huh? And I <em>know you.</em> I could have pleaded, begged on my knees, I could have coerced you at sword point—nothing I do would have ever made you stop. You would have kept going and going and going; you always do.” Wilbur was in Schlatt’s face, and Schlatt was gripping his wrists. “And I can’t stop you!”</p><p>Schlatt’s mouth turned down, slowly. His neutral expression deepening into something near to remorse. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then stopped. He deflated beneath Wilbur. Wilbur let go of him and watched Schlatt sink in on himself.</p><p>Wilbur stood. He was drunk and his head was killing him. His mind felt full of staticky fog. No longer clogged by so many thoughts, but no more pleasant to occupy. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and over his scalp and let out of a heavy groan.</p><p>“Wilbur,” Schlatt croaked.</p><p>Wilbur ignored him.</p><p>“Wilbur don’t leave me,” Schlatt begged.</p><p>Wilbur was too weak a man. He turned back to Schlatt. It felt like he’d gotten far, but when he looked at the space between them—it was only a meter. Schlatt was staring at him. Pathetically.</p><p>“You’re all I have,” Schlatt said. “Please.”</p><p>“You’re unbelievable,” Wilbur said. “You.” Wilbur stopped. He wanted to leave, but he felt unsteady and he bent down and picked up his sword. His fingers closed on ground. His vision was off. “Fuck. What was in the potions, Schlatt?”</p><p>Schlatt shrugged. He tilted his head up, reaching for a bottle. His pathetic air had lessened into a brood. “Don’t remember. I put so much in those pots. Needed to get fucked. Up.”</p><p>“Fuckin’ hell.” Wilbur groped around until he found his sword. He was in no state to walk home, so he guessed he was waiting out sobriety. Schlatt stood with a groan, leaning on the wall of the camper to steady himself as he stood. He beckoned to Wilbur, gesturing to the inside of the camper</p><p>“Wilbur, grab my crack pipe and the crate. Think the pipe is on the ground around here somewhere,” Schlatt said, dragging a hand over his face. He drifted into the camper and Wilbur stared after him.</p><p>“You can fuckin shove your crackpipe up your ass, Schlatt,” Wilbur muttered to himself, but he did drop his sword again and grab the side of the crate. He tugged it up the rickety wooden stairs to the camper and pushed the swinging door open with his ass.</p><p>Inside the ruined drug van, camper, whatever it was at this point—was half a room breaching into a gaping hole. In the hole was a few chests and a mattress that’d seen better days. A few woven blankets were thrown on. Wilbur nudged the crate over towards the hole with his foot.</p><p>Schlatt was already in the hole, sprawled on his back. He had his legs spread; his feet flat against the bed. “Come cuddle with me, Wilbur,” Schlatt said, slapping the mattress beside him.</p><p>“That thing looks like it has lice,” Wilbur scoffed.</p><p>“Whiny bitch,” Schlatt retorted. He threw an arm over his face and raised a hand, making a grabby gesture. “Give me my crack pipe, my good mood is wearing off,” Schlatt bobbed his hand up and down for a moment vaguely in Wilbur’s direction. Wilbur ignored him and sat at the edge of the hole and looked in. It was a miserable sight to behold—this was L’Manberg’s president, huh?</p><p>The two presidents of L’Manberg in a crack den.</p><p>“Wilbur. Crack pipe? Now.”</p><p>“No,” Wilbur said. ‘You want it so bad, get off your ass and get it.”</p><p>“Fuckin’ asshole,” Schlatt said. His hand fell back to his side. “You get off on seeing me suffer. Bet your dick’s so fucking hard right now. Fucking swollen in those pants.” His speech was barely coherent, but Wilbur got the gist. He picked up a bottle from the crate and tossed it next to Schlatt, where it landed harmlessly on the blankets.</p><p>Schlatt moved his arm from his eyes and took the bottle. He pointed it at Wilbur. “Bet your dick wants air, Wilbur. Or my spit. I’ll suck you off. Long and hard. If you get me my crack pipe, Wilbur.”</p><p>“Not going to happen,” Wilbur said, laying on the floor with his legs dangling into the hole. He sighed. Freedom. His L’Manberg. All gone. Instead he lay here with the enemy, trying to clear his head enough to shamefully walk home.</p><p>They’d realize one day what he did was for the better, right?</p><p>“Wilbur,” Schlatt groaned.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t want to sit up, Wilbur. Snorting cocaine is too much work right now.”</p><p>“What a terrible life you live,” Wilbur said dryly.</p><p>“Jacking off makes you sober,” Schlatt suggested, throwing his arm back over his eyes.</p><p>Wilbur considered it. He kicked weakly at Schlatt’s knee. “No.”</p><p>Schlatt sat up with a loud groan and some heavy breathing. He pushed the bottle away and pulled his cocaine tin out of his pants pocket. He shook a very messy line into his hand and snorted it from there. “Fuck,” Schlatt moaned, ignoring the blood dribbling from his nose. “That bites.” He huffed leaning his head back against the remains of the floor, and sighing.</p><p>“Suck my dick, Wilbur, and I’ll—”</p><p>“I don’t want your dick or the coke,” Wilbur said.</p><p>“You’re a prude,” Schlatt grumbled. He gestured vaguely in the air. “What happened to the g-good…good ole days, Wilbur? ‘Member when we used to go to the Discord and waste credits?”</p><p>“When you snorted coke off a stripper’s dick? And ended up with a bloody nose for the night?” Wilbur questioned.</p><p>Schlatt cocked his head towards him and glowered. “Least we were friendly. Ya know what I mean,” Schlatt grumbled.</p><p>Wilbur pondered that. He watched as Schlatt’s eyes lowered and he grabbed the beer bottle and opened it.</p><p>“Schlatt,” Wilbur said.</p><p>“Wilbur?”</p><p>Wilbur didn’t know what he wanted to say. It just felt better to be seen then not seen right then. To feel even those fatigued eyes regard him concerned. Emotions were bubbling up in his chest, probably due to whatever fucked up shit Schlatt put in those potions. He wanted…comfort. A last solace before the unspeakable that lay hours from now.</p><p>“It…Gods…” Wilbur stopped himself. Laughed. It was so childish. He really wanted Philza here. Like when he was a kid and Philza would calm his breathing and press a wooden sword into his hand and distract him with fencing lessons or just horsing around with Techno.</p><p>“I want to be happy, Schlatt,” Wilbur admitted.</p><p>Schlatt didn’t say anything. Wilbur looked away from him, as he felt tears prick the corner of his eyes. He was looking at the cracks in the wood when he felt a hand on his ankle. Schlatt had crawled over to him and was resting a hand on Wilbur’s ankle and leaned against him. He gently massaged Wilbur’s ankle. A gesture of reassurance.</p><p>“Whatever hell lays after, you won’t be alone, Wilbur,” Schlatt said.</p><p>Wilbur didn’t want hell after this. He wanted the warm spring sun, the breeze in his hair and the distant, care-free feeling. But what other options were there. Wilbur gave into the part of him craving any form of intimacy.</p><p>Wilbur met Schlatt’s eyes, who was looking up at him balefully with lidded eyes and slightly parted lips. Schlatt offered his hand to Wilbur, and Wilbur took it and let the other man pull him down into the hole. Schlatt encompassed Wilbur in a soft hug, his legs on either side of Wilbur where they sat. He gently pulled Wilbur’s head against his chest and combed his fingers through Wilbur’s hair.</p><p>Wilbur clutched Schlatt’s shirt and inhaled the smell of Schlatt. A musky body odor, beer, tobacco and bitter potions that anywhere else would have been awful, but right now it was a familiarity that comforted him. Wilbur closed his eyes and leaned into Schlatt, a soft hiccup taking the place of the tears he wouldn’t shed.</p><p>Schlatt let go of him briefly to pull the blankets around them. Even in the humid air, it was a comfort to feel sheltered from the cruelty of the server for a moment.</p><p>“I can’t go on,” Wilbur whispered.</p><p>Schlatt kissed the crest of Wilbur’s head, and slid his hand to the nape of Wilbur’s neck and gave a reassuring squeeze. “It’s almost over.”</p><p>He pulled them both down to lay together, their legs tangling together. Schlatt held him still, his hand chest warm and gentle to lay against. His heart beat irratically even now. He could hear it with his head against Schlatt’s chest.</p><p>“I know it’s almost over,” Wilbur said. “I know…” He gripped Schlatt’s shirt tighter, his nails curling into his palm. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Schlatt.” The sheep man’s hand stilled, and he heard the soft questioning hum. “Distract me. And make it hurt.”</p><p>Schlatt sighed. The reverberation in his chest shifted Wilbur enough he opened his eyes. “Fuck,” Schlatt muttered, and his hand absently played with the hairs at the nape of Wilbur’s neck. “Fuck, Wilbur.” He seemed…put off by the request. “Gods,” Schlatt said with a huff that might have been a chuckle. He tilted Wilbur’s chin up, so he could look into Wilbur’s eyes. “Just…” Schlatt shook his head.</p><p>Wilbur frowned. “What?”</p><p>“You know,” Schlatt said, leaning close enough to kiss Wilbur, but stopping. “I’m staring to wish we had something healthier.” He did kiss Wilbur, slower than normal. It wasn’t his normal urgency and roughness. It was soft. Slow.</p><p>Wilbur groaned in frustration. Only now would Schlatt show tenderness. He pressed into the kiss, running his hand under Schlatt’s shirt and he nipped at Schlatt’s bloody lips, ignoring the taste and deepening their kiss. Schlatt greedily took then, drinking Wilbur in practically.</p><p>Despite Wilbur’s request, Schlatt didn’t take anything further than that. He kissed Wilbur long, deep and almost painfully. His blistered mouth pressed against Wilbur’s hard until breathing became a distant memory.</p><p>Wilbur broke apart with a huff. “Schlatt.”</p><p>“Shut up,” Schlatt said, and dragged a finger over Wilbur’s lips. A rough and sloppy gesture, that darkened for a moment when Schlatt pushed the finger into Wilbur’s mouth, then a second. His thumb dug into Wilbur’s face as he forced his mouth open, but the gesture was abandoned. “I’m too fucking sad for this,” Schlatt muttered. He withdrew his hand, and tucked his head into Wilbur’s shoulder, his horns brushing against Wilbur’s hair.</p><p>Wilbur’s skin crawled and he longed to shred it from his bones, but even the warm touch of Schlatt sated the feelings of loneliness for the moment. He closed his eyes and leaned into him. “I’m not going to be able to sleep.”</p><p>“I won’t either,” Schlatt muttered. “Just…don’t leave me yet. Wait. Until daybreak.”</p><p>Wilbur nodded and closed his eyes, his thoughts consuming him once more as he clutched Schlatt and shook with the cold of death at the edges of his future.</p>
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